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Francis D. Smith After swimmingwe give ourselves up bodily to the cold crush of waves relieving, reliving the plunge into love when we stripped each other for the close night on the empty beach below the house where it began in gab and gin and tonics we lunge out pounded, socked shivering the green cold Atlantic is no lake for lovers we need the blankets, grab them beat it up the flight of wooden steps into the house, rush the fire I dry you slowly as you lie taking it your body smells of love, the sea the afternoon sun, glows from the toweling you are miles away I am still as a lighthouse, you lift your hips the rich cunt cargo, sable and spices is coming to me in the wide white ships. |
| Francis D. Smith lives in Massachusetts. His prose and poetry have appeared in Atomicpetals, Eclectica, The Melic Review, Mentress Moon, and elsewhere. email: Francis Smith |